


Table For Two

by saltythumbtack



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Brief mention of sexytimes, But no actual homophobia because I love myself and these characters, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No actual sexytimes because the author is tired and hates writing smut, brief mention of period-typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltythumbtack/pseuds/saltythumbtack
Summary: In which Napoleon is absolutely adamant on taking Illya on a date, because that is what proper boyfriends do. Illya protests, but not that much.





	Table For Two

“I don’t see why this is necessary.” Illya grumbled, looking around at the suits as though he thought they might jump off the shelves and attack him.

“Of course you wouldn’t, Peril.” Napoleon replied smoothly, examining a lovely bespoke that would look quite nice on him. He half-wondered if it would be appropriate for him to get something for himself, too, but then he realized that Illya would probably strangle him with a tie if Napoleon made him wait in the store any longer.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Illya asked, managing to keep most of the contempt out of his voice. Napoleon rolled his eyes, sighing loudly.

“Peril, I could dig around in a dumpster and find clothes nicer than yours. For someone with such a compulsion to dress everyone around you, you don’t seem to have any of that desire for yourself. You’re really quite handsome, and if you just put a little more effort into your clothing, you’d be stunning.”

“Oh, I am handsome, am I?” Illya teased, nudging Napoleon affectionately. Napoleon shook his head, fighting to keep a smile off his face. Illya grinned triumphantly, turning back to the suits. 

“Don’t you want to know why we’re looking for suits?” Napoleon prompted, wrapping his arm around Illya’s waist.

“No.”

“Illyaaaaaaaa.” Napoleon groaned, pouting.

“You are a baby.”

“We’re looking for suits because I’m taking you to dinner tonight, and I want you to look respectable for once.” Napoleon said smoothly, guiding Illya over to a row of suits. Illya looked down at them distastefully, his nose wrinkling. 

“I look fine in my suits.”

“Yes, but you’d look _better_ in these, wouldn’t you?” Napoleon said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. He loved Illya, but sometimes he was completely impossible. Illya refused to see the benefits in actually buying and wearing nice clothes, and insisted that “fine” was perfectly alright with him. Well, it wasn’t alright with Napoleon. How was he supposed to show Illya off if the other man never dressed in a flattering way? And make no mistake, Napoleon fully intended to show Illya off. What was the point of being seen together if he couldn’t even show off his boyfriend? It was disgraceful.

“Napoleon, why do you insist on taking me to these stores?” Illya asked in a long-suffering tone. “Why don’t we just go home, make dinner, have nice time? It will be nice.”

Napoleon sighed, rubbing his forehead. Illya wasn’t _wrong_. He was never wrong. Yes, it’d be easier to stay in, cook a nice meal together, and be disgustingly domestic. But Napoleon knew himself. He loved parties, grand events, dinners at restaurants with dress codes. And Illya...Illya would sooner curl up and die than happily go along to any of those things. But dammit, Napoleon wanted to go out and show off the fact that yes, Illya was interested in men, specifically Napoleon, and Napoleon was more than interested in him. God knows they’d spent long enough dancing around each other at UNCLE, and Napoleon wanted everyone to know that Illya was his.

Napoleon’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud sigh from Illya. “Котенок, if it makes you happy, I will go to this-” He waved a hand dismissively, “ _dinner_ with you.” Napoleon didn’t miss the distaste in Illya’s voice, but he smiled widely all the same, leaning up to kiss Illya’s cheek.

“Thank you, Peril.”

“Whatever.” Illya grumbled, rolling his eyes. “You’re paying.”

One disgruntled manager and several traumatised fitting room attendants later, Illya had a suit, and Napoleon had a headache. God, he loved his boyfriend, but Illya was a pain in the ass sometimes. It really wasn’t that hard to find a suit, but as Napoleon was quickly learning, Illya could make anything hard.

Heh. _Hard_. Napoleon chuckled at his joke, revelling in the fact that Illya would probably hurt himself rolling his eyes at the terrible joke. Ah, screw him. Napoleon had a great sense of humor. Illya just didn’t know what was funny.

“Happy now?” Illya grumbled as they left the shop, suit in hand.

“Yes.” Napoleon replied cheerfully, leaning up to plant a kiss on Illya’s cheek. Illya grumbled indistinctly, but Napoleon could see a smile tugging at his lips. 

Several hours later, Illya was growing irritated again, and Napoleon was enjoying it far too much. He fiddling with his tie, adjusted it, then pulled it off to start again, watching Illya in the mirror. His partner’s hand was tapping a staccato beat against his thigh, his mouth drawn in a thin, hard line. Once upon a time, that tapping would’ve terrified Napoleon, but now he found it comforting. It was one of the few visible indications Illya gave of his moods, and it meant that it was time to stop with the teasing and sober up.

“Alright, I’m ready.” Napoleon announced, turning to Illya with a proud smile on his face. “How do I look?”

Illya’s tapping slowed, then stopped as he looked over Napoleon. His expression softened, changing into something that Napoleon knew was a smile. “You look wonderful. Now, let’s go. We will be late.”

“ _Fashionably_ late, Illya. The fashion is the important part.” Napoleon said cheerfully, wrapping his arm around Illya’s. Illya rolled his eyes, pulling Napoleon along faster than was absolutely necessary.

They arrived on time, but only because Illya broke just about every driving law in existence. Napoleon was half-convinced that they’d be arrested the moment they arrived, but surprisingly, they arrived without incident. He supposed it was the universe’s way of apologizing for all the shit it had put them through, and so he accepted it without complaint.

“Solo, table for two.” Napoleon said, smiling at the waiter. The waiter nodded, signaling for them to follow.

“Solo?” Illya asked quietly, frowning.

“Yes, Solo. Kuryakin isn’t exactly an easy name to spell for us non-Russians, and it’s not ideal for keeping a low profile.” Napoleon explained, grinning. He knew how sensitive Illya was about his name, so he’d never tell him the truth, which was that he didn’t trust the average American to not butcher the pronunciation of Illya’s last name.

“Kuryakin is an easy name.” Illya grumbled. “Name like Solzhenitsyn is difficult. Kuryakin is spelled like it sounds. Americans are weak.” He cast a sidelong glance at Napoleon. “Solo is a stupid name. A made-up spy name. Not good for keeping a low profile.”

Napoleon snorted. “Well, it’s the height of the Cold War, Peril. Pardon me for not wanting the entire CIA dining with us tonight.” Illya inclined his head, conceding the point. “Damn those international politics, interrupting our date night.” Napoleon joked, sitting gracefully in the chair that Illya pulled out for him.

“So, what is your plan for this evening?” Illya asked, scanning the menu. Napoleon knew it was merely a courtesy. Illya always ordered the same thing, probably a by-product of his stark upbringing and military discipline. Funnily enough, Illya was always willing to get something sweet for dessert. It was one of Napoleon’s favorite things about him, and the fact that almost no one knew about Illya’s love for sweets made it even better.

“We’ll have dinner, you’ll get something ridiculously sweet for dessert. I’ll try to make you pay for the meal, you’ll bitch and complain, but when I try to pay, you’ll stop me and pay for it yourself. Then we go home, and have some quite enjoyable sex.” Napoleon said casually, watching Illya carefully for a reaction. 

Illya barely gave any indication that he’d heard Napoleon, much less been affected by his words in any way. “Typical night, then.” Illya replied, unfazed. Napoleon pouted. There were times that having a spy for a boyfriend were a pain in the ass, and this was one of them. Normally, people would be bowled over by his seduction techniques, but Illya refused to give him anything.

“Why don’t you like my flirting?” Napoleon pouted.

“Oh, that was flirting?” Illya asked, raising an eyebrow. “My mistake.”

“I hate you.” Napoleon grumbled.

“I know. That’s why you’re taking me to dinner.” Illya replied, grinning. Napoleon made a face at him, making Illya grin wider. 

“You’re still paying.” Napoleon retorted, signaling the waiter that they were ready. They ordered politely, Napoleon ordering for Illya because that was what you did when your boyfriend was Russian and it was the 1960s. Illya smiled politely at the waiter, doing his best to not look like an intimidating male model. The waiter still looked terrified, but that might’ve just been gay panic. It was hard to tell sometimes.

“I am not paying.” Illya said once the waiter had left. Napoleon frowned. 

“Why not?”

“Because you are the one who insisted that we come here.” Illya replied smoothly. “And because you are expensive.” Napoleon sighed, reluctantly agreeing. 

“Why don’t you ever treat me, Peril?” Napoleon whined, smirking. Illya glared at him, thoroughly unamused.

“I treat you all the time, Cowboy. But when you insist that we go out, then you pay. Not hard to understand.”

“Your accent is hard to understand.”

“Please. You think it’s-how did you say?-”sexy as fuck, god I love your voice.””

Napoleon flushed. “You can’t prove I said that.”

“Mmm, no, but whoever’s bugging our apartment can.” Illya replied, grinning. Napoleon snorted. The CIA had tried to bug their apartment several times, but thanks to Illya’s twice-daily ritual of sweeping their apartment, the CIA hadn’t been very successful. Several of the bugs had mysteriously stopped transmitting, most turned up in various odd countries around the world, and one had been placed inside a strip club (at Napoleon’s insistence). They’d thought about reporting the bugs to UNCLE, but it was far more entertaining to quietly fuck with the CIA.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop trying to bug us?” Napoleon asked, a note of sincerity creeping into his voice. They both knew they weren’t exactly safe from their former agencies, though the CIA had the advantage of being in the same country as their apartment. The KGB was doubtless looking for ways around that particular barrier, and it was only a matter of time before they found a way around it. 

“No.” Illya replied, not sounding particularly bothered by the threat to their lives. “But I’ve lived through worse. This nonsense is temporary.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, not sure if he should be concerned or impressed. “I expected a threat.” He joked, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Or maybe a dramatic expression of your undying love for me.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Illya grumbled dryly. “You and your flair for the dramatic. Secret spy name that no one believes is real, dating an ex-KGB agent, insisting on taking me to dinner every chance you get. Stupid American Cowboy.”

“Yes, but you love me!” Napoleon replied sunnily. 

“Yes.”

“Because I’m dashingly handsome and the most charming man you’ve ever met?”

“Mmm, no.”

Napoleon pouted, but was spared having to endure more bullying by the appearance of their food. He thanked the waiter graciously, the epitome of good manners. Illya smiled robotically, and Napoleon bit back the urge to laugh. Illya hadn’t quite realized that fake smiles were more than just moving your mouth, but Napoleon supposed that everyone was too intimidated by him to actually tell Illya he wasn’t doing it right.

There weren’t many times where Napoleon could tell that Illya had been raised much differently than him. Napoleon was all about indulgence and savoring the pleasures of life. He ate like every bite was his last; savoring each mouthful for as long as he could. Illya ate like it was a chore, a necessity. He was methodical and efficient and it bothered Napoleon in a small way, knowing that Illya didn’t get the same pleasure out of food that Napoleon did. Really, it wasn’t because of anything Illya did; it was because Napoleon liked to cook for the people he was close to, and it meant he couldn’t cook for Illya.

“Something on your mind, Cowboy?” Illya asked. “You’re awfully quiet. Never a good sign.”

“Just wondering why you chose to deny me my greatest pleasures in life.” Napoleon replied, grinning. Illya rolled his eyes.

“What am I supposed to be denying you now, Cowboy?”

“You never let me cook for you.” Napoleon pouted. “You don’t appreciate good food.”

“I like sweets.” Illya offered.

“Baking is hard.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes it is. And besides, what would you know about baking?” Napoleon asked, scowling.

Illya frowned, looking slightly offended. “I bake. I wouldn’t ask for sweets if I didn’t know how to make them myself. Helps you appreciate them more, when you know the work that goes into them.”

Napoleon blinked, taken aback. “You...bake?”

“Yes, Cowboy, I bake. Why is that such a surprise to you?” Illya replied, a slight note of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Well, it’s, you know...cute.” Napoleon stammered, staring abashedly down at his food. Illya laughed, reaching across the table to briefly clasp Napoleon’s hand.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” Illya reassured him. “I’m not just a brute. I do nice things sometimes.”

Napoleon frowned. “You’re not a brute. Why would you say that?”

Illya shrugged, avoiding Napoleon’s gaze. “I know what people say about me.”

“Well, I say you’re not a brute. And I’m more important, because I’m wonderful and amazing and _your boyfriend_ , so ignore those other bastards.” Napoleon said, reaching out to place a hand over Illya’s. Briefly, because it was the 1960’s and people would talk.

Illya lifted a shoulder, conceding the point. “And you want me to bake you things.”

“Yes!” Napoleon said brightly. “Bake for me and I’ll cook for you.”

“You are a bad cook. Always want to use expensive ingredients.” Illya said, ignoring Napoleon’s offer.

“That doesn’t make it bad.” Napoleon grumbled. “You’re just a cheapskate who doesn’t know how to enjoy himself.”

Illya sighed. “I enjoy myself just fine. Finish your dinner.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “Eager to finish, are we?” He winked salaciously, wiggling his eyebrows in a decidedly unsubtle manner. 

Illya rolled his eyes. “I will make you dessert. I’m trying to be a good boyfriend, Napoleon. Accept my offer.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this has a very abrupt ending or drags on too long. I don't know how to write fluff but I had this so I thought I should post it.  
> As usual, Illya's name is spelled with two t's because that's what canon says and if canon ignores the actual Russian spelling of Ilya then that's what how we live.  
> Hope you liked it!


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